Whatever It Takes
by DwarvenGirl
Summary: **Spoilers** Between juggling his resolve and his guilt over his identity, Bertholdt Hoover has a rough time finding his center, and his nightmares are getting worse, but through it all, Reiner Braun has always been there for him...


_Screams cut the air, the gut clenching sounds of the dying stark in his ears as the steam rose all around him. Blood splattered the streets and the sides of buildings like the painting of a careless artist, the mottled stench of death rising in his nostrils. Panic gripped his chest like a vice, and he could feel the warm dampness of sweat beading upon his brow as he surveyed the damage. What could have done this? What monster could have cut a swathe through the innocence of this little town? His hands felt sticky, and he wiped them on the seat of his pants. _

_"Please," a voice nearby begged feebly. "Please don't hurt me." _

_His eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the owner of the voice that could only barely be heard over the sounds of distant screaming and the moans of the wounded. Through the steam he could barely make out a crumpled form, a lump against the cobblestones. Stumbling forward, he tripped on something that lay in his way and, , landing heavily upon his knees, he was brought face to face with the phantom speaker. _

_It was a young woman, her smooth skin smeared with gore. "Please," she said again, her voice thick. "I beg you, don't hurt me." She gave a wet cough. _

_Reaching for her, he started when he saw the scarlet glisten upon the skin of his hands. There was so much blood...so much blood on his hands. He reared up, a harsh scream rattling against his throat. He had tripped on her legs, which had been violently sheared from her body, and the snowy white of his corps uniform was soaking up her life's blood, a blossom of crimson that he could feel even through the heavy canvas, wet and warm. _

_Stumbling away from her, he spouted steam from his mouth in a billowed scream, his form exploding, all reddened flesh and tendons. And in that second, he knew he was going to hurt her..._

Bertholdt woke sweating and shaking, his heart pounding a violent tattoo against his chest. It was just a dream, he realized as he stared up at the darkened ceiling of the barracks, the tangled sheets trapping him, constricting him to his small cot as his pulse hammered loudly in his ears.

His dreams had become almost unbearable these past weeks, the guilt weighing upon his mind like tendrils of some cancer that was killing him slowly. With the Colossal Titan raging within him, he felt as if he was losing his mind, as if insanity lay just beyond the paper thin partition between himself, and the monster that raked at his consciousness day and night.

He covered his mouth, silently muffling the sob that thickened his throat and burned his eyelids. He couldn't keep doing this, his resolve was wavering, and every day brought him closer-closer than he had ever come to ending it all, killing the beast, killing himself.

He contemplated that, his mind detaching from the emotion state. Could he kill himself successfully, and still kill the beast within? Or would maiming himself simply result in yet another transformation?

There was no way of knowing the outcome of a suicide attempt, and Bertholdt worried for Rein...he couldn't leave him, not now...not after Shigashina...not after Trost.

He sighed heavily, scrub in his eyes with a weary hand. What had they done? There was so much blood on their hands, so many lives marked up to their war, the dividends of which would only multiply in these coming days. A low sob broke the stillness of the barracks, and instinctively Bertholdt reached for the man beside him.

Reiner Braun lay with his back turned to Bertholdt, curled as he had always been want to do, hand tucked beneath the pillow.

Bertholdt turned, throwing an arm around Rein, cuddling as close as his tall angles would allow.

"Rein," he whispered in the other man's ear. "Rein, it's alright. I'm here, my love."

Reiner started violently. "Bertl?" He whispered hoarsely, his meaty hand closing gently around Bertholt's slender wrist.

"It's going to be okay," Bertholdt told him, brushing a kiss against the back of Reiner's neck.

Reiner Braun wiped his face roughly, breathing in a shaky sigh.

"What have we done, Bertl?" He asked in a hoarse whisper.

Bertholdt rested his head against Rein's heavy shoulder, silence and guilt hanging heavy between the men.

"We're warriors, Rein. We protect each other, and defend justice for the cause."

Reiner twisted in Bertholdt's arms, shoving him back and pinning him beneath his weight.

"And what if the cause is wrong?" He growled, his voice husky.

Bertholdt stared up at him, brown eyes meeting ice blue ones, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Reiner," he whispered. "I can't-I can't make it without you. I can't do this alone."

"Our friends," Reiner began, and he broke eye contact to rest his forehead upon Bernholdt's chest. "We're killing our friends. I don't know how many more of our friends I can lose, Bertl."

"Rein," Bertholdt said softly, and Reiner raised his eyes to meet his again. "I would kill everyone we ever knew to keep you safe. I would burn this place to the ground if just to know you were alright; whatever I took, I'd do anything for you."

Reiner's eyes widened, his grip on Bertholdt's arms loosening to just a caress. Tracing his jaw gently with calloused knuckles, Rein leaned down to brush Bertholdt's damp brow with soft lips.

Bertl's hands slid up the muscled legs he loved so much, and his fingertips kissed the indelible marks left by the almost ever present straps for their 3D Maneuvering Gear, a scar that told of servitude and the chains of the captivity that they had know these several years.

He hated the thought of Reiner's perfect skin marred in this permanent way, scarring that spoke of pain, grief and blood, but each time he traced them he thanked whatever God was out there that Rein, his Rein, was here, flesh and blood and heavy pulse that throbbed against his own chest, these scarring marks a testament to his survival, _their _survival.

Reiner's thick hands ran down Bertholdt's chest, and with a low growl he captured Bertholdt's lips with his own, hungry and desperate.

Their lovemaking was always edged in fear, desperation lending a wildness to the ritual that excited Bertholdt, and saddened him. Each encounter's wild passion inevitably ended, and even as they lay entwined and tangled up in each other, chests heaving, skin glowing in fresh sweat, the heights achieved and reached in the moments of pure bliss ended in the steady inevitability of death, and Bertholdt felt cold at the thought of Reiner's blue eyes, so beautiful, full of warmth and life, glazed and staring, blood smeared against his cheek, and even as he breathed his lover's name, he knew it may soon become a scream of grief for his lover's memory, and he clutched the arms that he loved so much, breathed the name he loved saying above all, and in his own pleas for release, also in some way begged whatever deity existed in this cruel world for his lover's life to be spared, whatever it took, whoever it took instead.

And as that blond head rested against his chest, Bertholdt swore upon his own beating heart, nothing would happen to his beloved. Not even if he had to sell his very soul to the beast that raged within him, all steam and blood. He would kill every person in this world if only to gain Reiner one more moment of this peace they had found together.


End file.
